Disillusionment
My friend Karen was on her way to a lecture. ‘SFU Harbour Centre,
please,’ she
told the taxi driver. ‘I am not sure the exact location but I know it
is somewhere in Hastings St. in downtown.’
‘I know where SFU
is,’ said the driver, a man who
appeared to be in his 40s. ‘I’ve attended a few lectures there,
he added.
They drove in silence for a few minutes, and then the driver spoke up. ‘You
are planning to enroll in SFU?’ he
asked Karen.
‘Uh, no,’ Karen replied, ‘I’m attending a lecture
with friends.’
‘And what is the subject of this lecture?’ the driver asked.
‘Four Centuries of Anglo-Scottish Union,’ she said.
‘Ah, history,’ said the driver. ‘I have always been interested
in history, but I opted to take my master’s degree in developmental studies.’
‘Really,’ said Karen. The inevitable follow-up question formed
in her mind, but she bit her tongue. Her tact proved unnecessary.
‘Perhaps you wonder why I am driving a taxi when I hold a master’s
degree in developmental studies,’ said the driver.
‘I am a little curious,’ Karen admitted.
‘You see, I grew disenchanted with society. I chose to get out of the
rat race before it swallowed up my humanity,’ he declared.
‘I see,’ said Karen. For the next 15 minutes the driver railed
against the greed, materialism, and insensitivity of contemporary society.
‘Here we are,’ the driver announced.
‘Well. Goodbye,’ said Karen, handing him the fare.
‘Goodbye,’ he said. He drove off while still muttering and pondering
the dilemnas of the modern world.
Disorder
Karen and I got into a taxi. The radio was blasting dance music loud enough
to make our ears bleed.
‘Richmond, please,’ I told the driver.
‘What?’ he yelled above the din.
‘Richmond!!!’ Karen and I screamed.
The driver said something but we couldn’t hear him above the Celine
Dion dance remix.
‘What?’ we chorused. He repeated what he’d said, but it was
drowned out by the singer’s impression of a police siren. ‘What?’
‘Do you know how to operate this radio!!!’ the cabbie screamed. Some
teenagers fooled around with the controls and now I can’t turn down the
volume!!!’
I reached over and hit the volume button. Celine shut up. We all felt better.
Canadian Idol
The sticker on the windshield of the cab says Plate
Tectonics.
‘May I ask why you have a sticker called Plate Tectonics?’ my
curiosity getting the better of me.
‘I read somewhere that all the continents in the world used to be one
solid mass,’ replied the driver, a rather pleasant ponytailed person
in his 20s. ‘Then the one solid mass broke into pieces and the pieces
moved away from each other. But when they’ve moved as far apart as they
can possibly go, the pieces, the continents will begin to come together once
more. That’s plate tectonics,’ he concluded.
Being a bit amused I further inquired, ‘You’re into geology?’
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I play guitar in a band. I also
write songs. Would you like to listen to one of my original compositions?’
I nodded. The driver sang his song a capella. Each line in the song
began with the letter B.
Mr Armageddon
I flagged down a cab in front of the office and told the driver to take
me to Newport Village in Port Moody. As soon as I got in, I felt a bit uneasy.
There is a receptacle at the back of the front seat with a few pamphlets on
it. A small sign say “Take One”.
I recognized it since I have seen it before, these were pamphlets that tells
you about being born again or the elaboration of John 3:16.
But what was different with these ones, the pamphlets had a slightly different
theme. They were one of those doomsday-pseudo-prophecies, worst-case scenarios,
of the effects of the world getting more and more depraved.
The cabbie must have been a believer of these dire forecasts, for the pamphlets
were copiously annotated in black marker pen. ‘Repent!’ was written
in the margins of the topmost pamphlet. ‘Only
Jesus can save you now! John 3:16 Love thy neighbor.’
I refrained from making comment on the “unusual ornament” in his cab, fearing
that I would be subjected into a fire-brimstone-scorpions sermon in the middle
of unusually warm day. Fortunately, the driver was not in a chatty mood,
as we drove to Port Moody in silence.
The meter read 33 dollars . I handed him 2 twenty dollar bills and figured
I’d
tip him five bucks for sparing me a sermon on the end of the world. I waited
for my change. And waited. The driver made no move to hand over the money.
He’d
decided to give himself a tip!
So much for John 3:16.
‘Where’s my change?’ I told the driver. He did not look
pleased, but he forked over a 5 dollar bill.
‘Thou shalt not steal,’ I mumbled as I got out. He sped away before
I could cite my source, Exod…………
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